


two birds on a window, sunday morning limbo

by aiineslin



Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, alternatively manana is nosey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:21:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22461784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aiineslin/pseuds/aiineslin
Summary: the strike is long.mañana looks for entertainment.(written in the spirit of the cursed fic contest on discord, though it has long since ended)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 28





	two birds on a window, sunday morning limbo

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from raveena - sweet time  
> pretty much only just listened to raveena and sabrina claudio when writing this and i hope some of their dreaminess seeped through  
> tbh i've got no idea what the hell this is, it just meandered to life on its own  
> i also don’t understand why it exploded to 3k words this was supposed to be a writing exercise 
> 
> as always, i apologise for any strange english structures and oocness beforehand

When the strike began, the streets filled up very quickly with new faces.

Half of them were scabs pulled from the other districts, brought in with bribes and false promises. The remaining half were irate lorry drivers, stuck in the arse-end of Revachol through the twin spectres of ill timing and bad luck.

It was easy enough to spot the lorry drivers.

There was a certain haziness around the outlines of their forms, Mañana fancied. The side-effects of long days travelling through distant lands and highways unwinding into nothing.

Also, unlike the scabs, they tend to wound up in the warm embrace of the Whirling-in-Rags sooner or later, looking to get drunk or drugged out of their minds.

(Scabs were only allowed in the Whirling on pain of death. And Mañana had a good camera and a penchant for high spots.)

This particular driver had yet to peel away from his great steel truck to head into the Whirling-in-Rags. From Mañana’s vantage point upon the high stairs, he could see how the driver walked back and forth between the Frittte every evening. Occasionally, he spoke to fellow drivers, but otherwise, he kept to himself and always returned to his sleeper cab every evening.

When Mañana chose to amble past that particular lorry one Thursday, he marked the driver - tall, lanky and tattooed in faded, blocky lines. He nursed two cigarettes carefully for the hour that Mañana sat in the Whirling - which Mañana considered a feat close to miraculous, when one remembered that the manufacturers specifically created their cigarettes in a way to burn through faster.

The feelers that he put out brought nothing back of real worth back to him - save for that the man liked to sing to himself, he enjoyed smoking, and he had been eating a disturbing amount of Frittte pre-made lunches.

It was, Mañana decided, the duty of a good Martinaise citizen to show an outsider around, to let them taste cuisine that did not come from a pre-packaged plastic box.

So when Friday rolled around, he slipped away from his lookout point, took the longer way around the protesting scabs, and beelined towards the tattooed driver.

“Evenin’,” he called to the man when he drew closer.

The driver looked up, surprise flickering across his pale features, before re-assembling his expression to something warmer. “Evenin’,” he replied easily. He tapped ash from his cigarette to the ground, and he blinked slightly watery eyes at Mañana. “And, you are..?”

“Call me Mañana,” drawled Mañana. “Now you’re the one who has me at a disadvantage, uh - …?”

“Tommy,” said the man, drawing himself slightly straighter. He smiled. “Rare to see a Martinaise man come down an’ talk to an outsider like me.”

“I like outsiders well enough.” Mañana dipped a wink towards Tommy. “Ain’t too fond of scabs, though.”

“Ah-ha,” Tommy glanced behind, towards the human scrum that formed a few streets behind the trucks. Tommy could not see them from his position, but he could hear them, a perpetually droning machine of repeated slogans. “Yeah. I could see why.”

For a moment, both studied each other, sizing each other up.

It could not be - Mañana thought - the first time Tommy had seen Mañana.

Martinaise could be a small district, and the strike made it very, very small indeed. And Mañana stood out, with his red cap and red tie. He glanced away, looking back where he had came from. In the distance, the harbour rose - a wall of steel and grey concrete. He could see the stairs where he so often haunted.

Red would have stood out.

“So, uh, Tommy…” Mañana held up a hand, pointed at the sky above.

Grey clouds hung low over the sky; a wind had picked up. An ice-cold breeze tickled the back of Mañana’s neck.

“Seein’ as the heavens are looking to empty a bucket right over our heads.. What say you we continue this friendly chat indoors? I’d like to get to know you better, seein’ as you’re a guest in Martinaise and all.” He tilted his chin westwards. “Julia’s diner is that-a-way. Can’t find better pierogis this side of the river.”

For a moment, he saw Tommy waver.

A droplet of rain splashed on to his forehead, trickled its way down the planes of his face and on to the ground.

“I’ll pay,” Mañana added.

“Ah, what the hell.” Tommy stomped his cigarette out on the ground, tucked his hands into his pockets. “I haven’t ate nothin’ more than convenience store food for a week. Pierogies sound good.”

*

In Martinaise, the alleyways folded upon themselves in strange configurations, streets snaked off and petered into nowhere - it was a known fact that urban planning went out of the window the further one got away from the centre of Revachol, and Martinaise was as far as it could go.

Julia’s diner was located at the very end of a street that bordered the apartments - a small, utilitarian hole-in-the-wall shop with multiple cheap plastic tables and chairs arranged in neat rows that hugged the plain, whitewashed walls - with one narrow space in between for the waiter to squeeze his way through.

A radio played slow rock, the whine of the guitars backdropping the buzz of conversation that permeated the air. By the time they arrived, the storm had begun in earnest, raindrops drumming loudly against the concrete.

All of the seats were occupied; and they were directed to share a table with a couple who were pecking away morosely at their pierogies, two half-drunk bottles of beer warming beside them.

The waiter dropped the laminated menu between the duo, his notepad and pen already at the ready. When Tommy picked it up, it was oily to the touch, and multiple fingerprints showed up on its plastic sheen.

“Mix plate’s the house special,” Mañana said, jabbing at the top of the menu - where the letters SAVOURY MIX PLATE BEST PIEROGIES was printed in large, bold capitals. “It’s got a little bit of everything. Isaac, two Żywiec Porters.” Too late, he glanced over at Tommy. “You drink, no?”

“I drink,” Tommy agreed, turning the menu over. There was nothing much on it other than pierogies, multitude of pierogies in a dizzingly wide array of flavours, and beer in the various Żywiec iterations. “Mix plate, sounds, uh - good.” He held up the menu. “Could we have the dessert mix plate after?”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Mañana appraised Tommy. “You’re a hungry, hungry fucker, aren’t you.”

“I ain’t gettin’ my wages till I deliver my goods, and seein’ as your boys are engineerin’ this whole strike thing...”

“Fine, fine. I’ll take responsibility. Isaac, you heard the man.”

“Mm-hmm,” grunted Isaac, tucking the notebook back into his apron. When he slouched back, he brought with him two bottles of Porter, the caps of which he twisted off with deft strength.

Lifting the bottle, Mañana grinned at Tommy. “To new friends. Salud!”

“Santé,” drawled Tommy, clinking the bottle.

As one, both of them drank deep. When Tommy lowered his bottle, his eyes were bright - the first swig had caused two red spots to bloom on his high cheekbones. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Fuck. It’s been a while.”

“I thought camionneurs were all drunks!” Mañana set his bottle down with a loud thunk; the grin that split his face was sly. “Livers of hardened steel and all...”

“I’m the rare ‘un who likes to keep a cool head on his shoulders.” Tommy slouched into his chair, and he reached into his coat, fumbling around until he withdrew a crumpled pack of Gitanes. “And also, I prefer to smoke. But drinkin’ makes me wanna smoke even more’n usual. And I ain’t got that much money to spend on smokes.”

“That’s a quandary, alright,” Mañana agrees. His hand was already out.

“Would’ve pegged you for an Astra man,” Tommy said. Smoke curled from his nose, his dark eyes merry. “All the Martinaise men I’ve met smoked Astras. Hell, the Frittte only stocks Astras.”

“Nicotine is nicotine is nicotine,” Mañana told Tommy, sparking the Gitane to life. He inhaled, catching the smoke in his lungs. There was a peculiar tang to it, which made Mañana wrinkle his nose slightly. “What’s this taste?”

“This, Martinaise man, is the taste of Deora-of-the-Seven-Seas.” The pack disappeared back into Tommy’s coat. “My wife stocked me up with five cartons when I left on this haul. Should have asked her to stock up on more, eh?”

Before Mañana could say anything, Isaac set a massive, massive porcelain plate of pierogies on to the narrow table with a dull thunk. Smaller side-plates of sour cream, fried onions and stuffed cabbages joined it. “Savoury Mix Plate Best Pierogies. Enjoy.”

“This is a feast,” said Tommy, gaze roving over the little dumplings. “There’s... so many of them?”

Mañana closed his mouth, picked up his fork. “I told you, this is the house special.” He picked one up with fork and spoon, transferring it over to Tommy’s plate before dusting it with some fried onion. “This one has potato and cheddar.” He waved at the others, drawing out invisible lines with the tines of his fork. “Julia likes to pile the ones with the sauerkraut and mushroom here, and the pork pierogies go _here_ and ...”

Tommy had already popped the pierogi into his mouth.

“Hot hot hot hot -”

“Is this your first time eating pierogi,” Mañana said mildly, picking one up and dumping a good dollop of sour cream on it.

“Rarely,” Tommy got out the word between swigs of Porter and gasping. “I rarely get to eat good pierogies. What on earth does she put in this?”

“Well, rumour has it that Julia adds a little bit of nose powd -”

“Which I don’t, which are all lies, which are all false.” The speed at which the short, red-haired woman disappeared from behind the counter to loom behind Mañana could have broken the sound barrier.

“It’s just love, ducky. Love and good cooking skills.” she beamed brightly at Tommy, before rounding on Mañana, the smile vanishing immediately. “You keep your mouth shut!”

“Mm-mm, zip zip.” Mañana mimed shutting his mouth, winking at Tommy as he did so.

“It’s really good, ma’am,” Tommy told Julia. He was already working on another pierogi as he spoke. “You don’t get that where I live.”

“Course not,” Mañana said. “You only get coke in big cit - yes, Julia, yes yes yes. I’ll shut up now.” When Julia left, he looked over at Tommy, and he said, “It’s true, of course. She puts just a pinch of coke into all her stews. Keeps people comin’ back when we don’t even have coin to spend on takeout food.”

Tommy paused mid-chew.

“I’m fuckin’ with you,” Mañana said comfortably, draining his Porter in one gulp. He lifted a hand, and as if by magic, two more bottles of Porter appeared on the table.

“Laura would kill me if I went back with a coke addiction,” said Tommy. His pale features are brighter; a ruddy flush had crept up his neck. He looked at the plastic table for far too long, his brows drawn together. “It’s been a while since I’ve been back.”

“Deora-of-the-Seven-Seas is on the other side of the continent,” said Mañana. He nudged the second bottle of Porter over, which Tommy accepted with a beam. “This ain’t a job I’d associate with a married man.”

“A married man,” Tommy corrected sadly. “With children.”

“An’ your wife lets you out of the house on that big truck of yours?”

“Hey, my man...” A large gulp disappeared half of the second bottle. “We all got to make a living.” His eyes sharpened slightly. “And my children have to go to school, so they don’t end up like their old man here.” His hand sneaked into his coat, but Mañana had already taken out his pack of Astras, placing it in the middle of the table. Tommy looked at it, glanced back up at Mañana and nodded silent thanks.

“That we do.” Mañana lit up an Astra, holding it between forefinger and thumb as he surveyed Tommy. “Us Martinaise boys are tryin’ to make a living too. On liveable wages.”

“An’ I don’t see nothin’ wrong with that.” Tommy rested his head against the wall, his eyes half-closed as he inhaled and exhaled, smoke trickling in a thin stream from his mouth. “I don’t fault you for fighting. But it’s troublesome for me, my man. I ain’t going to lie about that, no matter how much good food or crap cigarettes you feed me. I could’ve been a hundred miles away from Revachol by now. I could’ve been collecting my pay slip.” He traced meandering circles in the moisture left behind by the beer bottles. “I could’ve been headin’ back home, right about now. But, you know.” Tommy pulled himself straighter. “I’m still thankful for your good company. And good food.” He blinked, slow and calm. “I was wonderin’ when you would come scout me out.”

“I don’t do this for just anybody.” Mañana said.

The radio had been switched over to Evening Ballads FM while they spoke. Lilly Dupre’s sonorous wail filled the air.

“I’m honoured.” Tommy grinned, showing the tips of his teeth. “I had a good meal, an’ a good drink, thanks to you. But I ain’t got much to speak on, seein’ as I’m an outsider.”

“You’re playing down your interesting sides,” Mañana said. He lifted his hand, and the third round of Porters were brought to their table. “Now, I wanna talk a little more about them tattoos. What’re they all about, eh? I’ve only seen ‘em on Mirovan people, but - lest I’m losing my discerning ear, you don’t hail from there, so -”

“Now, that -” Tommy said, struggling to straighten himself in his seat. “I can speak on. See, when I was sixteen, my mammy brought a Mirovan man back home -”

*

Mañana looked at the sleeping face of Tommy, slack and unguarded, his brows clear and untroubled. His mouth was slightly open, revealing crooked teeth that were yellowed from nicotine. A few soft strands of hair had come undone from Tommy’s hair gel, curling gently over his forehead.

Mañana reached out, hand hovering a little above Tommy’s hair, and he withdrew after a beat.

He put his bottle down and dug around in his pockets, counting out money.

“Need some help?” Julia called from the counter.

“I’m good.” he replied, stooping down to sling Tommy’s arm around his neck. “He’s skinny. I ain’t too old to carry a skinny man. Thanks for the meal, love.”

The once-short three-streets walk to Tommy’s lorry was made longer by his deadweight on Mañana’s back, and Mañana gave thanks to the fact that Tommy had chosen to park his lorry at the edge of the street, rather than having it all snarled up in the scrum of lorries.

The storm had passed, leaving behind puddles of still water mixed in with yesterday’s dregs of half-melted snow. Water droplets plopped down occasionally from the over-hangings of roofs and tree branches; some landed on his coat, one slipped down his neck. The streets have wound down; the lamps burnt low above his head as he trudged past them. As Mañana half-walked, half-dragged Tommy, the man muttered and hummed little somethings that faded into nothings.

It was easy enough to find Tommy’s lorry; the huge FALN logo, starkly white above black paint – stood out among the other faded logos plastered across the other trucks.

“Tommy, lad,” Mañana whispered into Tommy’s ear. “Gimme some help here. Where’re your keys?”

“Mmfrggf.”

“Louder, lad.”

“Kffht.”

“Coat it is.”

He slipped a hand into the depths of Tommy’s coat, wriggling around. His hand came into contact with a leather key holder, which when drawn out, was revealed to hold half-a-dozen keys in varying sizes and shapes. He chose the ugliest, largest one to slot into the lorry’s cab doors, which proved to be correct when the mechanisms gave way with satisfying clicks.

“C’mon now, Tommy,” muttered Mañana. “One and a two, an’ you’re back in your little truck -”

With a grunt, the man heaved Tommy into the sleeper cab, sending the small cushion and thin blanket that had been spread on the seat flying. Half of Tommy remained dangling out of the cab, his legs hanging loosely in the air. The miniature wind chimes that hung on the rear-view mirror jangled indignantly as Mañana scrambled into the driver’s cab, attempting to haul the remainder of Tommy into the sleeper compartment.

“Atta lad, good lad – gimme a hand here -”

Groaning, Tommy half-scooched, half-wriggled his way further into the compartment, until the full length of his lanky body was curled into the compartment with difficulty.

In the darkness of the lorry, Tommy reached out, hand moving blindly. Mañana took his hand. It was slightly clammy, and Mañana held it tightly, noting the raised veins on the other man’s spindly hand, the marks of hard labour loading and unloading heavy goods. He ran a thumb over the roughened callouses of the other man’s hands.

“You’re in your truck, brother-man,” Mañana said quietly. “You’re safe.”

That seemed to do the trick. Tommy’s hand went limp, and Mañana carefully released it, allowing it to hang loosely over the edge of the seat.

He hopped off the cab ledge, landing nimbly on the ground, and closed the doors as quietly as he could, letting them click shut with a finality.

As he listened, he heard the beginnings of a snore sound, and Mañana looked away, into the darkness where the huddled shapes of the trucks took on the form of great beasts, outlined in dim streetlight and night fog.

He fished his cigarette pack out, sparked a light and tucked the lit Astra between his lips.

Closing his eyes, Mañana leant his head against the cold steel, and expelled smoke into the cool air.

Above him, the winds sighed, soughing through the emptied streets.

**Author's Note:**

> alternatively, manana tries to get some and fails.


End file.
